


Let me help you (please take my advice)

by waterbird13



Series: Writing our own Vows [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Switching, domestic Wincest, married Winchesters, mentions of hunting injuries, not eating as a form of self-harm, unspecified eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is losing weight rapidly, Dean is understandably worried about Sam's eating habits. They talk it out and begin to try to fix a problem that has been a part of Sam's life for over twenty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me help you (please take my advice)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, part five, here we go.  
> This part was a bitch to write, so I hope you all like it.   
> General warnings, one more time: explicit, gay, incestuous sex. Married, domestic Winchesters. Switching. Discussion of an unnamed eating disorder that is probably considered a form of self-harm. Additional note: please do not take advice on how to treat an eating disorder or self-harm problem from this fic. Please consult a medial professional.  
> I think that's it. Enjoy.

            The stitches hurt like a bitch, and the concussion is making Dean a little loopy, but he’s still aware enough to know that he needs to talk to Sam.

            “Sammy,” he slurs, painkillers making their way through his system. “Sometimes shit goes bad.”

            From his vantage point in Sam’s lap, Dean looks up, watching the corners of his mouth tighten. “I know.”

            “What happened to that girl…’s not your fault,” Dean continues. “We couldn’t save her. Nothin’ we could do.”

            “Sure, Dean,” Sam agrees quietly.

            “Not your fault for what happened to me,” he says. “Not our fault the son of a bitch got away, either.”

            “I know, Dean,” Sam says softly. “You need to sleep now.”

            “M’kay, Sammy,” Dean yawns. “Can I sleep here?”

            Sam smiles a bit at that, but even Dean, high as he is, can see the strain lingering behind it. “C’mon, let’s lie down together,” he says.

            Dean wiggles out of Sam’s lap and Sam re-situates them, lying under the covers, Dean’s head on Sam’s chest. “This okay?” he asks. “Doesn’t hurt?”

            Dean yawns again and closes his eyes. “Feels good, Sammy.”

 

            Sam is still unsure. Dean sighs. “I’m good, Sam, really. You’re gonna go with Krissy, like you planned, but I’m doing fine and Garth needs my help.”

            “Dean—it’s only been two weeks, man. It was fifteen stitches. That was a pretty bad concussion.”

            Dean shrugs. “I’ve had worse, Sammy. I’m gonna be fine. Look. If I’m not, I’ll tell Garth to call somebody else, alright?”

            Sam doesn’t look happy about it, but he gives in, and, the next morning, they drive off in separate directions.

 

            Sam is still asleep, blankets pooling around his hips, and Dean props himself up on one elbow, studying Sam.

            Sam looks…different. Dean would like to think it’s just the weak light from the bedside lamp he flicked on, but he knows better than to lie to himself when Sam’s health may be concerned. It’s not some weak lighting. Sam really does look like this, looks sunken and too thin.

            Sam is a big guy. He’s six-four, and, when he really works for it, can be a little over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. When he’s healthy, he can lift Dean like he’s a child, and Dean isn’t a small guy.

            Sam isn’t like that right now. He’s probably twenty pounds lighter and his muscle mass has been reduced drastically, and, yeah, it’s not the end of the world. Sam isn’t underweight. If Sam stopped working out, this is probably what he’d look like.

            But Sam hasn’t stopped working out. He’ll wake up soon and go for a run, just like every day.

            Dean wonders how bad a husband it makes him that he missed the fact that Sam stopped eating.

            They’ve been busy. Honeymoon period over, they’re returning to work full time, and not always together. Dean had been gone with Garth in Indiana this past week, Sam in Florida with Krissy. From what he gathered from Sam’s semi-regular phone calls, the hunt hadn’t gone nearly as well as his and Garth’s had.

            But this has been going on more than the week they were separated for. No one who isn’t seriously sick loses twenty pounds in a week.  So Dean missed something, and he needs to find out what he missed.

            Dean closes his eyes, thinks about Sam as a kid, the baby-fat and chubby-cheeked smile, the kid who loved Lucky Charms and chocolate ice cream and chocolate chip pancakes drizzled in syrup. Sam had been the only kid in America who ate less once he hit puberty. Because that’s when the salads started. Dean remembers going on a hunt with John, sixteen and sure of himself, and coming home two weeks later on a pair of crutches to find his brother with a new, lean look to his face.

            So Sam likes salads, he thought at first. So what. They were cheap and they were healthy, and it’s not like the kid was hurting himself. Sure, Dean gave him shit from time to time, but for the most part he didn’t say much.

            Now, he wonders if he should have.

            He runs a hesitant hand over Sam’s stomach, sunken now, and Dean swallows in horror. Sam is not dying. Sam is not sick. Sam is…Sam is doing this to himself, and that is the worst part of this.

            Sam forgets to eat sometimes. He puts off food for work, he mutters _not hungry_ over the top of his laptop when he’s eyeball-deep in research. Sam never eats a lot, considering what a big guy he is. But he always eats _enough_. Or almost always. There have been times when Dean has worried before. There are probably times when Dean should have been worried, was just too stupid to know what he should be worried about.

            Sam’s eyelids flutter, slowly opening as Dean continues his careful touches along Sam’s stomach. “Morning, Sammy,” he says softly.

            “Mm,” Sam groans. “Morning, Dean. Keep doin’ that.”

            Despite himself, Dean smiles a bit. He should talk to Sam, should demand answers, but he has a feeling that Sam hasn’t felt good that often lately. And if Dean can make him feel good, then he’ll do his best to do so. They can talk later. “Yeah? You like this, Sammy?”

            Sam grunts. “Mhm.”

            Dean makes his touch a littler firmer, dragging fingertips down Sam’s stomach, returning to the top and doing it again, this time with his nails.

            Sam hisses, and Dean would worry that he was hurting him if he didn’t know Sam so well, and if Sam’s hips hadn’t just started to make tiny little thrusting motions, seeking friction for his half-hard cock.

            Dean grins and crawls so he’s between Sam’s spread thighs, leaning over Sam to lick and kiss at his stomach, carefully avoiding touching his cock.

            “Dean,” Sam whines. “Dean, c’mon…”

            “No rush today, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, dragging the fingertips of his left hand up Sam’s inner thigh, still avoiding his cock. “Gonna take my time.”

            Sam moans when Dean starts licking across his stomach once more. This time, Dean sets a trajectory, slowly making his way to Sam’s left hip, where he sucks a bruise. Sam whimpers and mewls at the feeling of Dean’s lips on his hip and his fingers inches from his dick.

            “ _Dean.”_

            “Shh,” Dean soothes. “Got you, Sammy. Gonna take care of you, promise. Lemme make this good.”

            He looks up at Sam, who nods before letting his head fall back onto the pillows. Dean continues to mark Sam’s hips, moving to the right when he finishes the left. He takes his hand off Sam’s thighs—much to Sam’s displeasure—and trails his fingers up Sam’s stomach, across his chest. He gently rolls a nipple between his fingers, repeats the action when Sam groans, long and low.

            “Like that?” he asks, words whispered against Sam’s stomach, light puffs of air making Sam shiver. Sam doesn’t answer, but Dean doesn’t need him too.

            He finally begins to kiss his way down Sam’s stomach. Sam bucks his hips up in open invitation, but Dean ignores it, travels further down to nose at the line where crotch and thigh meet, licking at the skin there. Sam squirms, so Dean slides his hands under Sam’s thighs, holding them up and apart, giving himself full access to Sam.

            He lowers his head and nuzzles at Sam’s balls, licking and gently sucking at them until Sam is a writhing, pleading mess. “Dean, Dean, more please, fucking hell, Dean, c’mon, more, more, please, Dean…”

            Dean pulls back slightly, waits the moment it takes for Sam to calm down so he knows Sam will hear him. “Baby, hand me the lube?” he asks as he gently releases Sam’s legs, letting them rest on the bed once more. Sam fumbles beneath the pillows but gets his hands on the lube after only a few moments, passing it down to Dean.

            “Gonna ride you,” Dean announces, slicking up his hand while he speaks. “Gonna open myself all nice and wet for you, baby, then I’m gonna sit on that massive cock of yours, ride you till we both see stars. That sound good to you?”

            “Guh,” Sam grunts, head falling back onto the pillows once more.

            “Hey!” Dean admonishes, flicking Sam’s hip with the hand not covered in lube. “I’m up here, puttin’ on a nice show for you. You’re gonna fucking watch.”

            _“Fuck_ ,” Sam mutters, but he does as told, keeping his head up so he can watch Dean.

            Dean lies himself on his back, ass facing Sam, and spreads his legs wide, giving Sam a good view of his ass and himself a good view of Sam. Their eyes lock for a second before Dean allows his head to fall back off the edge of the bed.

            Dean slides one lube-covered finger into himself and almost immediately adds a second finger. He grunts and waits out the burn. It’s been too long since Sam has been inside him, has been too long since he’s gotten any relief but his own right hand on his dick in the shower.

            “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, voice breathy. “It’s been too long, baby, gonna be so tight for you.” With effort, he picks his head back up, watching Sam watch him.

            Sam groans, eyes rapt on Dean’s fingers, watching as Dean spasms as he rubs his prostate. “Fuck, baby,” Dean pants. “Feels so fucking good. Your dick is gonna feel better, though.”

            Sam only grunts, seemingly reduced to non-verbal responses.

            “Yeah,” Dean whimpers, adding a third finger. “God, Sammy, fucking missed you this last week. In me, on me, near me. Fuck, love you, Sammy.”

            Dean pulls his fingers out and sits up on his heels, wiping the excess lube off of his hands onto Sam’s cock.

            Dean positions himself over Sam and sinks down, taking his cock in one quick thrust. Dean bites his lip and holds still, waiting for the burn to fade. It does so after a minute, so he cautiously rocks his hips, pauses for a second to adjust the angle and begins again.

            _“Fuck,_ ” Sam breathes, bringing his hands to Dean’s hips. He doesn’t attempt to guide Dean, lets Dean control the pace, just starts rubbing at Dean’s hips with his thumbs, digs his fingers in particularly tight when Dean picks up the pace, setting a rhythm that Sam apparently appreciates.

            The amulet is bouncing against Dean’s chest, the little horned devil hitting him repeatedly, and it feels so good, the familiar weight of it there. Sam’s eyes seem automatically drawn to it, watching it’s rhythmic bounce as Dean moves.

            Dean brings his hand to his cock, and he’s not going to need much to come, but he wants to hold out, wants to feel Sam let go first.

            “God, Sammy,” Dean moans. “Feel so good, baby, missed you in me. Want you to come inside me, Sammy, please come inside me.”

            Sam does, arching his hips, driving himself even deeper into Dean, and Dean can’t hold out any longer. He comes all over his hand, gets come on himself and Sam, and collapses forward, the hand covered in come landing on Sam’s chest to support himself.

            Once Dean comes down from his high and his brain starts functioning fully again, he realizes he probably shouldn’t be making Sam support his entire body weight and hastily rolls off. It’s probably ridiculous. Sam hasn’t suddenly become some hundred-pound shrimp. Supporting Dean is still probably a piece of cake for him. But if there’s any chance it could hurt Sam, any chance at all, then Dean is going to ensure that it doesn’t happen.

            He curls up beside Sam, throwing one legs over Sam’s and lacing their fingers together. “Missed you, Sammy,” he murmurs after a while.

            “Mhm,” Sam says. “Me too. What time did you get in last night? You should’ve woken me up.”

            “No way, Sammy, you looked exhausted,” Dean says. “It was about...midnight? One? Somewhere in there.”

            “Still should’ve woken me up,” Sam grumbles. “Fucking missed you, Dean.”

            “Missed you too, Sammy,” Dean says again. “Shouldn’t split up,” Dean continues. “I know…everyone wants our help. But we should keep it like the old days. You and me, saving people, hunting things…”

            “The family business?” Sam asks with a wry turn to his lips. “It’s not just us anymore, Dean. We got Krissy and the kids, Charlie and Dorothy, Garth, Kevin, Cas…”

            Dean grins. “So we expanded. Doesn’t mean things have to change, man. We’re still partners.”

            “Yeah,” Sam agrees quietly, squeezing Dean’s hand.

            They lie in silence for a few minutes more, just enjoying lying in each other’s arms once more. A week, to the two of them, is far too long to be apart. Truthfully, Dean considers a couple hours too long to be without Sam. But jobs and injuries and general craziness of their lifestyle have kept them apart for far too long.

            Sam eventually stirs and gently untangles himself from Dean, kissing Dean’s forehead and climbing out of bed.

            “Hey,” Dean protests. “Where you goin’?”

            Sam turns to him, and Dean’s throat constricts a bit, because, _god_ , Sam looks so thin standing like that. A lot of his normal bulk is gone, like it melted off his body when Dean wasn’t looking.

            Sam gives him a look. “Time to get up, Dean,” he says patiently. “Gonna get a run in before it gets any hotter out.”

            “You’re…going for a run?” Dean asks hesitantly.

            Sam rolls his eyes as he begins to pull on clothes. “Yeah, Dean. Just like everyday. It’s only been a week. Nothing’s changed that much.”

            “Yeah, but…sure you don’t wanna shower with me? And then grab some breakfast?” he asks hopefully.

            Sam smiles and kisses Dean quickly. “I’ll be back in a while,” he says. “Then we can spend the day together.” And then he leaves.

            Dean lies on the bed, staring at their ceiling, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do. Tie Sam up and spoon-feed him? He’s hoping it won’t get that far, it would kill him to have to do it, but he will if he has to.

            He sighs. He doesn’t even know what Sam has or hasn’t been eating. Because they’ve been busy. Because Sam has been deep in research mode when he’s not working out and hunting and because Dean has been taking hunts where he can and dealing out others to their network of hunters where he can’t. His entire injury lay-up was spent helping Charlie and Dorothy with a hunt via phone, and Sam, when he hadn’t been fussing over Dean, had been, according to Cas, almost constantly in the library. He can’t remember the last time they sat down and ate a meal together.

            He groans and gets out of bed and pulls on his robe, going to the shower to clean up. He’d wait for Sam to finish his workout and join him, but he wants to make breakfast so he can ambush Sam with as soon as he gets out of the shower. Also, the come on his stomach is starting to itch and he wants it off now.

            Dean turns the water as hot as it will go and lets the bathroom steam up, luxuriating in the practically unlimited hot water heater. He misses this when he has to stay in motels.

            Once he’s clean, he dries off and dresses quickly, padding barefoot down to the kitchen, critically examining their fridge and pantry.

            “Seriously?” he grumbles, because it appears Kevin and Cas ate most everything and replaced nothing while Dean was gone.

            But it doesn’t matter, because they left Sam’s stupid oatmeal alone—apparently they never got hungry enough to try that—and Dean makes a big bowl of that, adding maple syrup and brown sugar, enough to give it some flavor, so it hopefully won’t taste like smashed-up cardboard. He slices up the last grapefruit—going a little squishy now, but still good enough—and checks to make sure they actually have juice.

            The front door bangs open, signaling Sam’s arrival home.

            “Sammy?” Dean calls.

            “Gimme fifteen minutes,” Sam yells back.

            Dean rolls his eyes but let’s Sam go for his shower. At least it’s just a shower. He could insist on doing another whole round of exercises, chin-ups and weight lifting or whatever it is he does.

            Sam comes down to the kitchen just as Dean is laying food on the table, hair still wet and feet bare. Dean looks him over critically, although he tries to be discreet. Sam’s jeans are sagging down his hips. And the shirt—“Dude, is that my shirt?”

            Sam flushes. “It, uh. Yeah. It was clean.”

            Dean frowns but doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

            It’s too short on Sam and fits awkwardly around the shoulders, but it’s not as tight at the chest as it should be. They sometimes share sweatshirts and over-shirts, things that nobody would notice if they’re a little tight or a little loose. But this is different. That shirt fits Dean like a glove, which means it shouldn’t be anywhere near that good a fit on Sam.

            Dean just turns away to pour himself a bowl of cereal, calling, “eat your breakfast,” over his shoulder.

            He doesn’t even get the milk poured when his phone starts ringing. “No sense of timing,” Dean mutters as he checks the caller ID. It’s Krissy’s latest number, and he frowns. “Be right back,” he says to Sam. “Eat something while I’m gone.”

            He picks up the call as he walks out of the kitchen, aimlessly wandering down the hall. “Hello?”

            “Hey, Dean,” Krissy says.

            “Hey, kiddo. How you doin’?”

            “Leg’ll be fine in about a month.”

            “Good. Stay off it till then. I mean it.”

            He can practically hear her eyeroll. “Yeah, dad, whatever you say.”

            He snorts. “You’ll thank me when it heals clean. Last thing you need is bones to ache, fifteen years down the line.”

            “You’re such an old man,” she says. “Sam said you’re beat up, too. You good?”

            Dean sighs. “Jesus, is he still talking about that? I took a bad hit, had a concussion, some stitches. Nothing too bad. Hell, I was hunting with Garth this last week, I’m fine. He’s just a worry-wort.”

            “The way he told it, you should’ve been in bed for months.”

            He sighs. “Sam…that job went pretty bad. It freaked Sam out. He worries.”

            “Yeah,” she teases. “He’s the only one who worries. I’ve seen you with him, Dean, you are just a big mother-hen.”

            “Shut up,” he returns half-heartedly. She laughs.

            Then she sobers, her voice becoming much more serious. “I was actually calling to ask how Sam is doing.”

            “How Sam is doing?” Dean asks. “You’re the one who got banged up, not him. Unless—I miss something, Krissy?”

            She makes a sound to indicate her disbelief. “Miss something? You mean besides the fact that the guy lost, what, like, fifteen pounds? Maybe more? And that he’s too tired to stand up for long periods, nevermind hunt?”

            “Sam just went for a run,” Dean says automatically. “He can’t be that tired.”

            Krissy sighs. “Yeah, well, in case you haven’t noticed, he killed a wraith all on his own, too. That doesn’t mean he should be doin’ this stuff. Jesus, tell me you’ve seen it too.”

            Dean groans. “Of course I have—look, okay, Sam is—Sam sometimes gets like this.”

            “Why?” she asks.

            “I don’t know,” Dean admits. He’s in the computer room now, and he plops down into the chair, digging his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

            Krissy is quiet for a second. “Don’t you think you should find that out?”

            “It’s not that easy, kid.”

            “Why not?” she demands. “You’re married, for fuck’s sake. If he’s having problems, aren’t you supposed to talk about them?”

            “What am I supposed to say?” Dean demands. “ _Hey, Sam, noticed you haven’t eaten a full meal since you were thirteen, wanna explain why sometimes you just stop eating altogether?_ ”

            “Why not?” she demands once more. “Isn’t there something about in sickness and in health? This fucking counts as in sickness, Dean.”

            Dean pauses for a moment. “We never actually said those words in our vows.”

            “I think they were implied. Look, Dean, Sam is sick. And from what you’ve said, he’s been sick for a while. And hoping it’ll go away isn’t going to actually make it go away.”

            Dean lets out a deep sigh. “I know.”

            “Just…fix him,” Krissy instructs. “I gotta go.”

            “Stay off that leg,” Dean instructs hastily before she hangs up.

            He sinks deeper into the chair, running his hand over his face. Krissy is right, and he knows it. They have to talk about this, he has to understand it before he can fix it.

            He groans and stands, walking back to the kitchen to find it empty. “The hell?” he mutters. Maybe Sam has already eaten, has finished what Dean left for him. Dean checks the fridge, and in it is a still almost entirely full bull of oatmeal and three quarters of a grapefruit, sealed for later, as if Sam is coming back for them. Dean wonders how often Sam does this, how often someone else grabs his leftovers and finishes them, erasing the evidence Sam left behind. He thinks of all the nights he finishes Sam’s meal, perfectly aware of how little Sam actually eats.

            Sam is, as Dean assumes, in the library. He already has two books spread in front of him, a yellow legal pad covered in notes beside him. Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the edge of the table.

            “You didn’t finish breakfast,” he says.

            Sam looks up for half a second before returning to his notes. “I ate some.”

            “You ate, like, three spoons of oatmeal and a quarter of a grapefruit.”

            “Yeah?” Sam says, making a note. “Some.”

            Dean sighs and walks closer to Sam, flipping his book shut and landing his hand on top of Sam’s notes, obstructing his ability to write. “Sammy. We need to talk.”

            Sam sighs and leans back in his chair. “Not now Dean. I think I’ve almost found it.”

            That throws Dean for a moment. “Found what?”

            Sam tries to open the book again but Dean just puts his other hand on it. “The demon. The one…the one who killed that girl, and hurt you.”

            Dean blinks, takes a second to process that. “Dude smoked out. We didn’t know _anything_ , man. How’re you…how the hell you think you’ll find him?”

            Sam shrugs, gestures haphazardly to the text. “There’s…well, guess you didn’t really hear it, you were unconscious. But it…said some stuff. You know, things it had done. I’m just trying to track that back, find out who it is. Then we can summon it and kill it.”

            Dean raises an eyebrow. “And that’s why you haven’t been eating.”

            Sam sighs and looks up at Dean. “You have a question for me?”

            “Yeah, Sam, I have a fucking question for you,” Dean snaps. He takes a deep breath before continuing. The point isn’t to make Sam mad; on the contrary, that is the absolute last thing he wants to do. So he keep his voice gentle. “Sammy, you gotta know you’re not eating enough. That shirt shouldn’t fit you. You lost, like, twenty pounds. Krissy says you’re having trouble doing things.”

            “Krissy needs to learn to keep her mouth shut,” Sam mutters darkly.

            “Sammy,” Dean says. “You’re worrying all of us. Cas is worried. Cas, man. He spends half his time in his own little world, you know that.”

            Sam reaches for the book again, with little success. “I’m okay, Dean. I just need to finish this.”

            Dean frowns. “Sammy, that’s not good enough.”

            Sam looks down and purses his lips, as if debating what to say. Finally, he looks up. “It makes me sick, alright?”

            “What?” Dean asks, because he did not expect the conversation to go there.

            Sam shrugs, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I just…my stomach. It hurts. If I eat too much, I’ll just puke it back up.”

            “All the time?” Dean asks incredulously, and how did he not know this about Sam, the man who he is supposed to know everything about?

            Sam shrugs again. “Mostly, yeah. Salads, light foods, small portions—they’re okay. Sometimes, when I’m feeling really good, I can eat more. When I mess up, it’s worse. So I don’t eat a lot.”

            Dean goes completely still. “What do you mean, when you mess up?”

            Dean is getting tired of watching Sam shrug over and over. “That girl died. And you…you got hurt.”

            “I told you that wasn’t your fault,” Dean says, and it takes a lot of effort to keep his voice calm. “That girl died because a demon spent a few months inside her skull. It wasn’t your fault how the bastard left her like that when he smoked out. And I got hurt ‘cause I was a little too slow. That’s it.”

            Sam flushes. “I’m supposed to have your back,” he says quietly. “And I should’ve…”

            “Should’ve what?” Dean challenges.

            Sam shrugs once more.

            “So this is some…god, your hurting yourself, Sammy,” Dean says, the dawning horror sinking in.

            Sam’s head snaps up at that. “Not on purpose,” he argues. “And I’ll be fine. Once I…once I finish this, fix this, I’ll feel better.”

            “No you won’t,” Dean challenges. “You’ve lost twenty pounds in less than a month, Sammy. You think that’s gonna come back right away, the way you eat? And even if it does, what’s gonna happen the next time something goes wrong?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, can’t stand watching another emotionless shrug. “Why does your stomach hurt all the time, Sammy? Is it ‘cause you always feel a little guilty?” He’s horrified now. “God, it is, isn’t it? Sammy…” he says.

            Dean drops to his knees right there, hands spreading on Sam’s thighs, trying to get Sam to make eye-contact with him. “God, Sammy, no,” he says as soon as he manages to capture Sam’s eyes. “You have nothing to feel bad over, you hear me? All that guilt, that ties your stomach in knots, makes you sick, you need to let it go, alright? You have the biggest guilt complex I’ve ever seen,” he says, then sighs. “A lot of that is probably my fault.”

            “Dean, no—“ Sam begins, but Dean doesn’t let him finish.

            “Shut up, Sammy. A lot of that _is_ my fault. God knows, I’ve blamed you for a lot over the years. But you gotta know—tell me you know—I forgive you everything. And Sammy…you can’t blame yourself for everything that happens.”

            Sam shrugs again, but it’s not the same flat move. Dean thinks it’s a little angry, a bit of a sharp jerk in the movement. “What d’you want me to do?” he asks, clearly exasperated. “It’s not something I can just turn off, Dean. It won’t just _go away_ because you say so.”

            Dean tries to tamper back his frustration, because it’s not going to help. Besides, as irritating as he finds Sam’s acceptance of the situation, Dean understands that he has no concept of what it would be like to live with this for twenty years. “Sammy, we can fix this,” he insists, calm as possible.

            “How?” Sam asks. He makes eye-contact with Dean again, holding his gaze, and Dean can’t identify everything in that gaze, but he thinks there’s hope in there somewhere.

            “Well, I’m not gonna let you fucking starve yourself, for one,” Dean says, voice as light as he can make it. “We’re gonna talk about this shit together, Sammy. You feel guilty, you get that feeling in your stomach, tied up in knots, whatever, you come talk to me. I tell you a million times that I love you, that you have nothing to feel bad over. I tell you again and again and again until you believe me, until you feel better,” he says. “I need you to trust me, okay?”

            Sam hesitantly reaches one hand down, gently strokes it along Dean’s jaw. “Of course I trust you,” he says.

            Dean turns his head and kisses Sam’s palm. “Then fucking talk to me,” he says. “We can make this better, but only if you talk to me.”

            “Alright, Dean,” Sam whispers. Then he flushes. “It’s not usually this bad. I don’t usually need to be…taken care of like this.”

            “Hey,” Dean murmurs, face still pressed against Sam’s palm. “I married you. I love you. Taking care of you when you need it is what I do. You do the same for me.”

            They’re quiet for a minute, and Dean’s knees are starting to ache, but there’s no way in hell he’s moving, not now that he has Sam here with him, being honest like this.

            He gets it, that talking about this must be incredibly difficult for Sam, Sam who bottles everything up until it eats him alive, until it kills him. For a kid who liked to share and talk feelings out at one point, he sure learned the value of emotional repression. Dean swallows. One more casualty to the Winchester way of feelings. 

            And, knowing how hard this has been on Sam, all he wants to do is take him to their room, strip him and lay him on their bed, kiss him a thousand times, reassure him that he loves him. But first, he needs to know one more thing and he needs to feed Sam.

            “Come with me,” he says, getting to his feet and taking Sam’s hand, leading him to the kitchen. He points to a chair. “Sit,” he commands. Sam does, and Dean digs in the fridge, bringing the oatmeal and the grapefruit back out along with the jug of orange juice.

            He puts the grapefruit and a glass of orange juice in front of Sam. “You can do more research later,” Dean says. “For now, you’re going to eat as much as you can. And I want you to remember that you don’t have anything to feel guilty over.”

            “It’s not gonna go away because you told it to, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “It doesn’t work like that.”

            Dean nods at Sam’s food, a subtle command to start. “Eat what you can. You want me to reheat the oatmeal, or make you some soup?”

            Sam considers for a second, and Dean is so insanely glad that he accepts the choices, doesn’t stop to insist that it doesn’t matter, that he won’t eat it anyways. “Soup,” he finally says, so Dean finds a can of Campbell’s and begins to heat it.

            Sam eats some of the grapefruit and drinks some juice, and Dean leans against the counter, just watching him. “When did this start?” he asks.

            “Hm?” Sam asks, focused on his glass of juice.

            “This whole thing?” Dean asks. “You started switching from burgers and fries to salads when you were twelve, maybe. Is that when?”

            “What? Oh, yeah. I was twelve. The first time, I felt so sick, I didn’t eat for four days. When I did eat again, I didn’t want anything heavy. Didn’t want to throw up again. So salads it was, and they just kinda stuck.”

            “God, what on earth…” Dean begins. “What made you feel like that when you were twelve?”

            “You and dad went on a hunt,” Sam says. “It was just a spirit, and dad had me do the research from back at the motel.”

            Dean nodded. “It was a cursed object,” he recalls. “Something from an estate sale. It’s when I broke my leg for the first time.”

            Sam looks miserable. “I was supposed to find out what the object was and who was attached to it. I fucked up, you guys burnt the locket and thought it was safe…”

            “But it was actually some stupid teapot and the old broad blindsided us,” Dean concludes. “And I broke my leg.”

            Sam nods. “When dad called to tell me…it was my fault, Dean.”

            Dean frowns. “God, Sam, no. It was a mistake, we both thought it was that damn locket, too…c’mon, lockets are classic cursed objects. The chick who owned it was a raging nutjob, I would’ve thought she was offing people too. Who would’ve looked too hard at the crazy grandma?” He sighs. “I think you carry more guilt than any person I’ve ever met, Sammy.”

            Sam looks intently at his plate, nibbling on a bit more grapefruit. Dean turns away and dishes the soup into bowls, some for both of them because Dean never got his cereal that morning.

            Dean pushes the soup at Sam and sits across from him, hands Sam the spoon. “Eat,” he insists. “It’s just soup, Sammy. Not too hard on your stomach. We’ll start slow.”

            Sam looks at it doubtfully but raises the spoon to his mouth. Dean watches him as he eats his own soup, finishing the bowl before Sam is even halfway through his. But he is eating, his pace slow but steady, and that’s all Dean can ask for.

            Sam finally sets down his spoon and, sure enough, he looks a bit queasy. Dean examines the bowl, and there’s only about a third left, and it’s not great, but it’s good enough. “Great, Sammy,” Dean says, mustering as much enthusiasm for a bowl of soup as he can.

            Sam goes to stand, but Dean just lays a hand on his shoulder. Sam squirms a bit. “Dean,” he says quietly. “I ate. I need to go back, finish this…”

            Dean frowns. “I want you to come upstairs with me,” he says. “I want us to spend the day together, like you promised me this morning, because god knows we haven’t done that recently enough. I want to feed you as much as you can handle, every couple hours, see if we can put some weight back on you. And tomorrow, you and I will sit down _together_ and find that demon, okay?”

            “Alright, Dean,” Sam says quietly, giving in to Dean, probably recognizing that Dean isn’t going to let this go.

            Dean cuffs him in the back of the head, gently, more teasing than anything else. “Don’t act like it’s so hard to spend time with me,” he grumbles.

            Sam smiles a bit at that and helps Dean clean up the dishes.

            Dean takes a pad of paper off the refrigerator and starts making notes. “KEVIN!” he calls. “GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE.”

            Kevin shows up in the kitchen soon enough, slouching in, hair still sleep-rumpled. “Yeah?”

            Dean hands him the paper. “Groceries. There’s a cash in the drawer, pick these up. Sooner rather than later, okay?”

            Kevin grumbles but takes the list, and Dean doesn’t feel too bad. The kid practically ate everything in the house while they were gone, he can go replace it. It’s not like they’re even asking him to buy the food—the money is Dean’s, from a poker game a few weeks back.

            The list has some special items, in addition to what Kevin and Cas finished and needs replacing, everything Dean needs to make soups and light foods, things he can feed Sam for now.

            As soon as Kevin leaves, Dean takes Sam’s hand and starts pulling him upstairs, to the main level, towards their bedroom.

            Sam chuckles. “Eager, Dean?” he asks.

            “Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but he squeezes Sam’s hand and continues at the same brisk pace.

            Dean shuts the door behind them and grabs at Sam’s face, pulling him into a hard, rather desperate kiss. He laces one hand into Sam’s hair, the other stroking along his jaw.

            Sam, surprised by the kiss at first, takes a second to react, to get his hands around Dean, but he quickly adapts, slipping his hands underneath Dean’s shirt, running his hands up Dean’s back.

            Dean breaks away and tilts Sam’s head gently, starts kissing along his neck, open mouth kisses that make Sam squirm. He stills against Sam’s shoulder, further movements blocked by Sam’s—Dean’s—t-shirt. “When you’re better,” Dean says quietly. “I want you to pick me up and fuck me against that wall.”

            Sam chuckles. “You really like that.”

            Dean grins. “I really like that,” he agrees. “And you need to be healthy before we can do it.”

            Dean reaches for the hem of Sam’s shirt, stepping back a bit so he can pull it off, throwing it in a corner and exposing Sam.

            Sam looks shy now, blushing and looking down. Dean purposely says nothing, just leans back in and kisses and nips at Sam’s collar bones. “Love you, Sammy,” he murmurs between kisses.

            Sam sighs, and relaxes under Dean’s touch. “Love you too, Dean,” he says.

            Dean smiles and gently pushes Sam backwards, until he’s spread across the bed, hastily trying to get his own pants off. Dean helps him pull them off and chucks them to join the shirt, leaving Sam naked and spread out for Dean’s gaze. Sam squirms a bit, uncomfortable, so Dean begins to pull at his own clothes.

            Once he’s naked, he joins Sam on the bed, crawling over Sam so he can straddle his thighs and sets to work on his collarbones once more, leaving little love bites, marks Sam can look at in the mirror tomorrow and remember how he got them, remember how much Dean loves him, adores him.

            He moves further down Sam’s body, sucking at his nipples, gently tugging them with lips and teeth, making Sam moan and arch up into Dean’s mouth. When Sam begins a steady string of, “Dean, please, please, Dean, god, so good, more, so fucking good, please, _Dean_ …” Dean adds his hands into play, running the very tips of his fingers from Sam’s shoulders, down his arms, running along Sam’s hands. He takes Sam’s hands in his own and sits up, bringing Sam’s hands up with him, kissing at his knuckles, licking the webbing between his fingers.

            “Mm, Sammy, baby, what do you want?” Dean asks. “Anything you want Sammy.”

            Sam is breathing heavy, already, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s actually winded or just turned on, thinks maybe it’s a combination of both. But he wrestles his breathing under control and says, “fuck me, Dean.”

            Dean shifts himself off of Sam’s thighs and spreads Sam’s legs wide, kneeling between them. He lets go of Sam’s hands, begins stroking along the inside of Sam’s thighs. “Hand me the lube?” he asks, and Sam is way ahead of him, already has the bottle in his hand, and he quickly passes it down to Dean.

            Dean slicks his fingers and starts tracing around Sam’s hole, keeps his touch light, so light that Sam is quickly pushing down towards Dean, desperate for something more.

            “Fucking tease,” Sam mutters, and Dean laughs softly at that.

            “Hold your horses, Sammy,” Dean says. “Gonna get there, promise. Gonna make this good, first.”

            He gives Sam what he wants a moment later, pushing the first finger in, grinning when he finds his prostate. “Fuuuuck,” Sam rasps.

            Dean rubs his stubble-covered cheek against Sam’s thigh, just above his knee, and the sensation makes Sam twitch. “Like that?” Dean asks, watching Sam’s face, but before Sam can even attempt to formulate an answer, he slides a second finger in alongside the first, rendering Sam speechless with the exception of Dean’s name.

            It’s a steady litany, now, coming out of Sam’s mouth, and it only grows more frantic, more broken when Dean slides in his ring finger, wedding band setting Sam off as usual. “ _Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Deeeean…_ ”

            Dean swallows, watching his husband writhe and arch on his fingers. “Yeah, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Just like that, that’s good, baby. Feels good, right? You like that? God, so good, Sammy, so perfect, baby,” he says quietly, encouragement and endearments spilling from his lips as he continues to fuck Sam on his fingers.

            Dean pulls his fingers out and wipes the excess lube on himself with feather-light strokes, careful of setting himself off. He was close, so close already, without even touching himself, but he wanted—needed—to see Sam fall apart before he let go himself.

            He lines himself up and pushes in, waiting for Sam to adjust once he bottoms out. He grabs Sam’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together and bracing himself on Sam’s hip with his other hand.

            Sam moves his legs, wrapping them around Dean’s hips and squeezing, and Dean takes the hint, begins to pull out before pushing back into Sam. The rhythm is awkward at first, too slow and gentle, Dean too conscious of hurting Sam. Sam growls and pushes a heel into Dean’s back, pushing himself down onto Dean the best he can. “Not gonna fucking break,” he growls, and Dean takes the hint and picks up the pace, giving them both something they can be satisfied with.

            So Dean continues with hard, deep thrusts, and takes his hand off Sam’s hip, moving it so he can cradle and fondle Sam’s balls, rolling them into his hand, making Sam’s breathy pants grow louder.

            “C’mon, Sammy, come for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, tightening his grasp just a little bit. “Wanna see you come, baby.”

            Sam practically arches off the bed when he comes covering Dean and himself in come, shouting stuttered little cries of “Ah-ah-ah, Dean!”

            He’s so beautiful like that, completely letting go of everything, and Dean, watching his face, mouth slack, eyes closed in bliss, can’t help but come himself.

            “Fuck, Sammy,” he calls, voice broken, cracking a bit.

            He rolls to Sam’s side, their hands still intertwined, and the two of them lay there, side by side, getting their breath back.

            “That was…thanks, Dean,” Sam says after a few minutes.

            Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re thanking me for fucking you now?”

            Sam blushes a bit. “No, I—just thanks.”

            Dean squeezes Sam’s hand. “Yeah, Sammy. I hope you know—anything you need, Sammy, I wanna help.” He sighs. “How you feel right now?”

            “Okay, I guess.”

            “Yeah?” Dean asks, relieved. “That’s good, Sammy. Why don’t we take a nap, then get you some more food? I’ll help you with research after that. Sounds good?”

            “I promised to spend the day with you,” Sam protests mildly.

            “We will,” Dean assures. “I don’t mind researching with you, Sammy. Just—as long as we’re together, yeah? Need to spend more time together. We’ll research, and then we’ll eat dinner. And as soon as we find that son of a bitch, as soon as you’re feeling better, we’ll go hunt his ass down, together. Sound good?”

            “Mhm,” Sam says softly. He’s quiet for a minute before saying, “I want beef stew. For dinner.”

            “Yeah?” Dean asks, and he’s so damn proud, because he can tell how hard Sam is trying. And Sam will probably only get to eat half a bowl, but if it’s what Sam wants, then it’s what Sam will get. “Sounds good. I’ll start some when we get lunch.”

            “Nap first?” Sam asks, turning so his leg is over Dean’s, head on his chest. He lets go of Dean’s hand and instead rests his hand in a loose fist over Dean’s heart.

            “Yeah, baby,” Dean says quietly, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” he murmurs.

            Dean feels the exhalation of Sam’s soft snores across his chest, and he too closes his eyes, able to drift into an easy sleep, secure in the knowledge that they can—and will—make Sam better.


End file.
